


Breathing Space

by kampix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Typical Alcohol Consumption, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, by which i mean too much, can't get much more vague than this folks, vague allusions to the 14th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22753690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kampix/pseuds/kampix
Summary: One night, shortly after Armageddon't, at Aziraphale's place, Crowley starts reminiscing about the 14th century.As expected, it doesn't go very well.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping and made myself emotional. Welp...

Aziraphale wasn't entirely sure when it happened, which possibly had to do with how sloshed he was, but between sea urchins and duck confit, the conversation had somehow changed course and Crowley was now grumbling about the 14th century again.

"--Hhng, ya know?" Crowley's head tell him, smushed right in the crook between the arm and the back of his sofa, the rest of him sprawled out but mostly hidden from view from where Aziraphale sits in his chair. Crowley arm, hanging limply over the the sofa's own, punctuate his sentence with a motion that nearly spills whatever wine is left in his glass onto the floor. "And 'm jussss mindin' my own business and-- and-- I mean, ya know. Sss' just..."

Crowley sighs loudly, opens his mouth to continue, then stops. Aziraphale watches him frown before attempting to push back his glasses from where they'd slipped on his nose.

Crowley shrugs. "Was just real shitty is all 'm sayin'..." He shrugs again and goes silent.

Awareness passes through Aziraphale like a knife through molasses, but after about a minute, it clicks in place.

They were free to do and say anything they wanted now, but old habits die hard; especially when coupled with a strong side of PTSD. They had never truly talked about themselves before --because they couldn't-- and they still weren't talking now because they were both afraid of what it would mean to open up.

In that moment, thinking about multiple (human) lifetimes worth of fears and doubts and seeing his best friend push back down eras of suffering and trauma that had still yet to heal, Aziraphale decided that, maybe old habits die hard, but, with a little help and a lot of courage, new ones had just as good a chance to see the light.

He rose up from his seat and wobbled along until he reached the sofa, spurred on by the frankly impressive amount of alchohol running through his system. Humans might have been on to something with the whole 'liquid courage' thing, he reflected. He discarded his empty wine glass on the coffee table before leaning on the sofa's arm while Crowley looked up at him, frozen in place.

"Scoot over, I'm sitting here now."

Never breaking eye contact, Crowley slowly shimmies his top half backwards, scrunching up into a ball on the right side of the sofa, his glass of wine miraculously still in his hand and containing the same amount of liquid as it had before he moved.

Aziraphale half-sits, half-tumbles heavily onto the cushy seat. He plucks the wine glass from Crowley's hand and sets it next to his own on the table. He settles back on the sofa and attenpts to smooth down his clothes before patting his lap as confidently as he can.

Aziraphale doesn't have to wait long before a head comes to rest tentatively on his lap. He smile softly and can't help the little wiggle that comes with it.

"May I?" He asks Crowley, barely above a whisper; afraid the demon might spook and run away at any second.

Crowley nods his head, his hands holding onto the angel's soft coat. Aziraphale gently removes his sunglasses, folding them and sliding them in his shirt pocket. Crowley's eyes are tightly shut and Aziraphale gently wipes away a tear rolling over the demon's cheek and down his nose. He feels more than hears Crowley let out a shuddery breath.

And suddenly Crowley is trembling, coiling into a ball around Aziraphale, his fists tightly gripping his coat.

Aziraphale miracles himself sober instantly and rests a hand on Crowley's head who tenses up at the touch before relaxing ever so slightly. He cards his fingers through the shoulder-length locks of red hair and repeats the motion until he loses track of time.

"I've got you my dear, it's ok," he murmurs when Crowley finally opens his eyes to look at him. He looks lost and Aziraphale continues to pet his hair, softly speaking more and more words of reassurance.

They never end up speaking of the death and suffering and nightmares that haunt them that night. But as the dark makes way for dawn, they can see the light and find that they are finally, truly free. Free to love, to hope, and to heal.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the editing. I really wanted to post this and will come back to make a final edit in the morning, when things make sense.


End file.
